


Hands of Green

by Magnanimator



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1972140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnanimator/pseuds/Magnanimator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your general "what if things had worked out better" kind of deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedded and Bedded

They did not make love, in the evening after they were wed. 

The bride was delivered to the bedchamber dutifully enough, lowered gently onto the rose-strewn bed by a small crowd of distant relations who had been cowed into respectfulness by the groom's brother and uncles. She was delicate, after all, and let it never be said that Highgarden lacked for gallantry. 

The groom's arrival was gentle too, though less from gallantry and more from the ladies' fear of twisting his bad leg or rubbing against the bruises and knotted scars. These were fearfully ugly, after all, and let it never be said that Highgarden could bear ugliness. 

When the others had gone, the two of them lay atop the coverlets and looked upon each other. 

He thought that he got the better of this exchange. She was perhaps the fairest maiden he had ever seen, in all truth (he should have known, for his brother would not lie), all smooth skin and long legs and huge eyes that peeked shyly from beneath her hair like swift, clear streams winding through the autumn trees. A Stark by name, a Tully by look, a queen by bearing and grace. The urge to look away in deference was nearly as strong as the urge to do more than look. 

The urge to hide his ugly, crippled leg was stronger than either, and so that is what he did. 

She thought she got the better of this exchange, for he was a comely man, and more. She should have known, for the king's court said otherwise, and the king's court could only ever lie. There were soft brown eyes, a kindly jaw, lovely...well. Well. She was not quite sure what to do with her eyes, really, and lowered them demurely. She felt a blush coming on at the thought that nobody had ever told her whether she was supposed to enjoy seeing her husband naked or not. Or whether...the other way around...

She flipped a blanket over herself before she realized what she was doing, and rose petals settled in her hair. The blush arrived in full. 

They seemed to realize what they were doing at the same time, and the groom let out a soft chuckle, almost a murmur. 

The bride became still more confused. 

“Lady Stark,” the groom said, and his voice was low and warm. “I hope you will forgive me, if I feel obliged to note that you look even more beautiful now than you did an hour ago. I had not thought it possible, and am bad at concealing my incredulity,” 

Sansa did not know what to say to that. 

“I had thought my name would be 'Lady Tyrell', now,” was what came out, and her blush deepened as soon as the last word left her mouth. 

“So it is, by all the laws of gods and men. Still. Which would you prefer?” 

“I...would not wish to dishonor you, my lord,”

“You couldn't,”

She looked uncertain, still, but then parted her lips with much the same look that Loras had worn when he'd mounted his first horse. The groom would not have thought that desperation and supreme confidence could be combined in the same expression, but now he had seen it done twice in his life. 

“Then I would like to honor my family,” she said, somberly. “I am the last of them,”

He nodded. “Then between the two of us, I shall always know you as Sansa Stark, no matter what either gods or men have to say about it,”

Sansa Stark had been given little idea of what to expect during her bedding, but she was almost certain that this was not it. There was silence for a long moment. 

“You don't have to hide your leg from me, my lord,” she ventured, at last, and it was the groom's turn to blush. 

“Erm. I had not realized that I was,” he glanced ruefully down at where he had concealed the offending limb behind its healthier neighbor. 

“They told me about it. I am not...not worried,” 

He rolled to a more natural position, bringing the bad leg out from behind the good. She stared, but not as he would have expected. She looked rather a lot like his good-sister, when she found an abandoned baby bird or a lost child. He quickly covered his loins with a blanket, out of respect for the one she had thrown over herself. 

He cleared his throat, in the manner of nervous men. “Well. I had honestly expected you to recoil in terror. I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or not,” 

She made a sound that might have been the very beginning of a giggle.

“Why should...” she began. Then seemed to think better of it. Then began again. “Why should I recoil from that, when the rest of you is so handsome?”

Her blush had never gone away, and it reached new and alarming shades at this. 

“I know I am not nearly so handsome as my brothers...” he began.

“You are at least as handsome as Garlan,” 

He harrumphed. 

“Why do I protest when a beautiful, naked maiden complements my looks?” he asked, seriously. 

“Truly I do not know, my lord,”

They spent more long moments looking at each other, until Sansa's blush began to fade. 

“May I approach you, Sansa Stark?” the groom asked. 

She started, uncertain again. “You are my lord and husband. You may do with me as you wish,” 

What had the Lannisters done to her, he wondered, to make her think that this was the way a marriage must work?

“But you are my lady and wife,” he pointed out. “And may therefor do with me as you wish,” 

Now she looked truly lost. “I don't know what I wish. I wish...to do as is expected of me,”

“Well. Before that wears off, I suppose I should take advantage of the opportunity and tell you to call me my name, rather than by 'my lord'”. 

“Willas,” she said, boldly, but looked almost ashamed of herself when the name had gone. 

They drew together then, as a husband and wife might. They kissed, and Willas drew the blanket down away from Sansa's shoulders. And then he stopped. There was something in her eyes that gave him pause, and he rather thought that it was fear. 

Perhaps he was not much of a knight anymore, but he would not take a maiden to bed against her will. Nor if it was her will only because she thought it must be. 

“Willas?” 

“Not tonight. Not until we are both absolutely sure,” 

She frowned, though her eyes glittered and her cheeks warmed. He had only suspected he saw fear, but there was no mistaking the relief he saw now. Though he had little enough time to appreciate it before it was replaced by concern. 

“Your family will know,” she ventured. “Your father will be angry,”

“Let him. He will not do anything,”

“But...”

“And if need be, I can get Garlan on my side, and father is afraid of him,” 

She had gone pale by now, her hair curling starkly across her shoulders. “I would rather there not be any fuss,”

“I will take care of everything,” he promised. 

With that, she fell silent. It was not long before she had burrowed further into the covers. He settled down on the other side of the bed, and saw that she was peering at the lamp that sat on a table across the room. 

“Should I...” she began.

“It will burn itself out, Lady Stark. I will not have you parading around naked before me, when you are not comfortable doing so,”

“You could close your eyes,” she pointed out. “While I blow it out,” 

“Oh.” He pondered for a moment. “Has anyone ever told you, Lady Stark, that you are a rather clever person?”

“No,”

“Well. We shall have to do something about that right away,” 

The light was snuffed out, and they lay down in the flowery night. Willas listened to her breathe. 

“Winter is coming,” were her father's words, but surely she should not have to hide away from the wind and snow.

“Family, Duty, Honor,” were her mother's words, but surely she had carried those burdens far enough, on those slim and moon-pale shoulders.  
“Fire and Blood,” were queenly words, but surely Sansa Stark had seen more than enough of both. 

Willas rather thought that his words would suit her better, and he hoped she'd give herself the chance to find out. 

She drifted off into sleep, and this time some of her dreams were not entirely unpleasant. 

They did not make love, that first night, for love is not something that is made.


	2. Letters from King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> House Tyrell makes an unnecessary production out of Certain Things.

Willas was with his hawks when the raven came, showing them off to Artos Rowan and Talmond Oakheart and Byrony Mullendore. His hunting birds snapped their heads around when the raven's shadow passed through the windowpanes, tracking it as hunters must. 

He knew it was serious when the maester hurried from ravenry to hawkery in person, This particular maester maintained a vague dislike for him, on account of, apparently, a certain unnatural curiosity that had caused him to poke around the ravenry unduly when he was a boy. And when he was a man.

The maester would have ought to do with him, if possible. 

When he saw the green-and-gold seal upon the message, he dismissed the others and cracked it open to read. The handwriting was thin and spidery, the meaning short and clear. 

“Byrony,” he said, catching the young woman just as her skirts were clearing the door. She turned and popped her head back through. 

“Lord Willas?”

“Do see if you can round up some of my cousins, when you go for your sewing. It seems like I may be in need of a wedding cloak or two,” 

She raised her eyebrow. It was an article of faith among the Reach's heirs and heiresses that Willas would never marry, so many suits had been turned down or retracted. 

“Another betrothal suggestion from your lord father?”

“No such luck. This is from my grandmother. And it is no suggestion: it is an announcement,” 

 

***

 

A courier arrived three weeks later, bearing letters too long or too sensitive to send by raven. 

Willas had amply provisioned his study for the looming siege of correspondence, and he commandeered the nearest page so that he would have someone to fetch any references he needed, and any extra ink or parchment. 

There were a number of curt, blocky missives from Randyll Tarly, most of which had to do with the disposition of the estates of men slain in the war, or with the cargoes of the barges that sailed up ther Mander to keep the Reach's armies provisioned. 

There was a tortuously-long, flowery letter from young Ser Albard Meadows, humbly petitioning for the hand of a bastard-born Tyrell cousin who Willas had not even known was still in residence at Highgarden. There was a much shorter letter from Lord Meadows, less-humbly requesting that Willas ignore whatever his son had written.

There were dense, heavily-annotated letters from Lord Rowan, who wondered whether Willas had put any thought at all toward his proposed reform of watering rights along the northern Mander tributaries, which he had. 

Willas dutifully plowed through each of these and a dozen more, writing responses or taking meticulous notes which could be used to write responses later. He sent the page to inquire after the bastard-born Tyrell cousin who had Ser Meadows all a-flutter, thinking someone ought to ask the girl's opinion on her possible nuptials, as neither Ser Meadows nor his father had bothered. All along, he thought of the three letters with green-and-gold seals, which he was saving for last. 

He'd have called them a treat to reward himself for his hard work, but treats did not generally induce such anxiety. 

At long last, he broke open the seal on the first of the three letters. He had known there would be three, for Loras rarely wrote to him and their lord and father would be avoiding him at present. 

The first letter had the same thin, spidery handwriting as the message that had arrived by raven. 

 

_Grandson:_

_You'll be pleased to know that I have found the solution to your little marriage problem, by which I mean the fact that you have not managed to have one yet. And before you start, don't bother writing back about how you didn't need any help with the matter, as we all know that you do, and as your buffoon of a father could not bestir himself to provide it._

_(Frankly I've no idea why you didn't settle for the Beesbury girl when you were fiftteen. Your brother is perfectly happy with his Fossoway, after all, and a Fossoway is scarcely better than a Beesbury, but I digress)._

_The girl I've found goes by the name of Sansa Stark, and, as you may suspect from the name, she is a Stark of Winterfell, perhaps the key to the North if all this blundering about between young Robb Stark and Tywin Lannister ends in the manner that everybody expects. This is her main appeal, but she is pretty enough, in a Tully sort of way, and seems amiable. Admittedly, she is quite daft, as all people are at her age, but her head is empty enough that I can probably think of some useful things to put in it, later. I expect you shall enjoy nattering at her, if you can ever be bothered to take your nose out of a book for long enough to romance the girl._

_Also, do take care that your horrid cousins are not mistreating my drapes. I dearly like those drapes, and don't think I didn't see Esme oggling them covetously. Sometimes I am disappointed that the Serry woman did not succeed in smothering her in her crib._

_Best regards,  
Grandmother._

 

Willas...did not know how to react to that, in any way whatsoever. He laid the letter carefully aside and extracting the next one, letting his gaze flow across the page. The script was swirling and intricate like a lady's coiffure, and he sometimes had to pause to re-read a word particularly burdened by baroque flourishes. 

 

_To Lord Willas Tyrell, Heir to Highgarden and acting Warden of the South._

_Willas!_

_Willas, I have found a most wonderful girl, and have decided that you must meet her. When I mentioned this to father and grandmother, they agreed with me and decided that you must also marry her – for she has a terribly important womb, politically, it must be said – but that is beside the point. Her name is Sansa Stark – yes, the Stark who was betrothed to Joffrey before me – and she is lovely and kind and in some need of a true knight's protection. She was born to live in Highgarden, I think, and does not have that Northern prickliness we have heard so much about._

_You'll recall my previous letter about Joffrey, I hope? He is a beastly little man and I have no idea how Sansa kept herself together while he did what he apparently did to her. Perhaps that is why she is so shy? I should have mentioned that she is shy. And don't pretend, dear brother of mine, that you don't find shy girls irresistible. I remember Anette Beesbury._

_Anyway, as I said, Sansa is a bit closed off, but I just know she will blossom in Highgarden, with you to look after her. We've all always known that you have more of the Greenhand in you than any of us, and I can't imagine any soil where you couldn't get something nice to grow. But enough about you! I should tell you more about Sansa._

_Has anyone mentioned her looks? She is tall and pale, more marble than chalk, with those big blue Tully eyes and that magnificent Tully hair that my handmaidens envy so. Father says that she is the very image of Catelyn Stark at that age, so perhaps you could toddle down to the library and consult some of old Humbert Rowan's odes to Lady Catelyn, or some of Vortis Oakheart's. The ones that were written after the tournament at Raventree Hall, where Catelyn Tully was crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. I'm sure they would do a better job of describing these things than I can, here._

_And I meant it when I said Sansa was kind. She remains ever so nice to Prince Tommen, despite his brother, and I just know she would make a wonderful mother. She is beautiful and pure and quite guileless, like a princess from a song – the kind of song they do not sing in King's Landing, any longer. I cannot wait for you to meet her!_

_Fondest regards,  
Lady Margaery Tyrell._

 

As he finished reading this, Willas scratched his chin. Margaery meant well, he supposed, but it always roused a smidgeon of suspicion when she started talking of people as though they were wheat. 

And he had never even done anything with Anette Beesbury. It was all rampant speculation! 

It was the last letter he was looking forward to, in truth, for there was only one true-born Tyrell who had never been known to lie. The last letter was curiously thick, too. He wondered whether he was in for one of the notorious Garlan-and-Leonette double-letters. 

He opened it up. The handwriting was languid and unremarkable. 

 

_Dear Willas._

_Got wind of what Grandmother and Margaery were up to._ _The match is a good one, big brother. You will like Lady Sansa. I halfway expect you could come to love her (Leonette agrees with me! She is nodding), so long as you enter your marriage with clear heart and clear mind. But do take care with her, for I think it would break your heart to break hers._

_Yours truly,  
Garlan  & Leonette._

 

Surely enough, there was another piece of parchment folded together with that one, the handwriting also languid and unremarkable. 

 

_Dearest good-brother._

_I am reading over Garlan's shoulder as he writes, to make sure he is not succumbing to his sense of the dramatic again, which of course he is._

_When he says to take care with Lady Sansa, he does not mean that you must be gentle with her, for, while it's true enough that you must, we all know to expect nothing less from you. But you must pay close attention to what she wants and what she feels. We have not figured these things out about her, and so cannot offer any advice on the subject, but that is a task rightly appointed to you anyway._

_Garlan suspects that she is more Stark than others realize, and the North is known both for keeping its secrets close and for not brooking any disrespect to them. Or so it is said._

_Yours truly,  
Leonette  & Garlan._

 

Willas peered fiercely at the double-letter when he was done. Then re-read it. Then folded it up and placed it in his desk drawer, where it could be readily consulted. 

“Well,” he said. 

His contemplation was interrupted by the return of his page, who bore the welcome news that the matter of Ser Meadows' suit had resolved itself, for the bastard-born Tyrell cousin quite loathed the young man and would on no account consent to marry him. He dipped his quill into his inkpot and settled down to write.


End file.
